


Baby, the Stars Are Shining (like the lights above Arby's)

by elijahfall



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, I APOLOGIZE, M/M, WIP, first work in this fandom, may never actually get finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elijahfall/pseuds/elijahfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Um," Carlos murmurs. He looks at the vending machine, the orange, hazy glow reflecting off his glasses. "Is there a soda somewhere in there?" He points at the vending machine, more specifically, at its numerous white buttons, with their equally blank choices beside them. The prompt screen displays a message in Unmodified Sumerian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, the Stars Are Shining (like the lights above Arby's)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so as I type, I've only listened up to the sixteenth episode (The Phone Call) but I am voraciously devouring all I can about WTNV. Seriously. How are people still not listening to this podcast? But anyway, I still don't know everything there is to know about it so please don't tell the City Council if you find anything wrong

Serendipity means finding, quite unexpectedly, something pleasant. Like a field of blooming flowers, or a twenty dollar bill on the ground. Or your long lost pet snake, recently revived and grown three sizes, eating the neighbors you hate.

Welcome to Night Vale. 

 

The third time Cecil finds himself staring blankly into the abyss of the vending machine's mysteriously vacant choices is approximately the same time he feels the sensation of another being standing close beside him. 

"Corn muffin?" 

A delightfully smooth, brown hand holds out the said muffin. "Old Woman Josie said the angels returned her salt," the face attached to the torso attached to the arm attached to the hand says, and what a delightful noise it is. "So, you may find these a little more palatable." 

Carlos' hair has grown, but not as long as his initially lengthy, thick locks. It's still a dark black, darker than the inky black of the world government's helicopters, with the light pepper of grey at the temples, and it's perfect. Cecil clearly enunciates his thanks with the last of his remaining dignity, and gives the rest of his thoughts to that hair. 

"Um," Carlos murmurs. He looks at the vending machine, the orange, hazy glow reflecting off his glasses. "Is there a soda somewhere in there?" He points at the vending machine, more specifically, at its numerous white buttons, with their equally blank choices beside them. The prompt screen displays a message in Unmodified Sumerian. 

The last time Cecil pressed one of the bone white buttons (which may or may not have been made out of actual mammoth bone), an arbitrarily picked room in the radio station had been filled with equal parts carbon monoxide and nitrous oxide. Cecil hadn't known which room had actually been arbitrarily picked, he'd just heard the laughing screams of the trapped, slowly dying interns down below. On another, less misfortunate occasion, he'd accidentally triggered the sprinklers outside. 

Carlos is munching on a corn muffin of his own, waiting for a reply, when Cecil suggests he try the new Pinkberry for sufficient nourishment, as the vending machine was (most likely) out of order. Carlos smiles, and Cecil can't keep himself from doing the same. 

"Okay," Carlos says, still showing off his immaculately landscaped collection of molars, third molars, premolars, canines, and incisors. He hesitates, and Cecil wonders if he knows about the aggressive plastic bags roaming near the Pinkberry, and if it was a really dumb idea to recommend Carlos go there. "Would you mind coming with me, then? Later, I mean, after the broadcast." 

Cecil recognizes this as possible dinner plans, and immediately agrees. 

"Eight?" Carlos says.

Cecil nods. Eight o'clock gives them enough time to avoid the persecuting eyes of the Sheriff's Secret Police, and the noxious, ethereal glow coming from Radon Canyon is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous at that time of night. 

"See you then," Carlos says, making brisk but totally unhurried strides toward the entrance. 

Cecil smiles, and presses one of the bone buttons, the third one to the left in the seventeenth row, slightly more worn than the others. The vending machine, to its credit, rumbles and gurgles and trembles like a real vending machine, and spits a bottle of water onto the floor. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," Cecil says, having returned to his desk and microphone, "During the break, I procured a bottle of fresh, clean spring water and dinner plans possibly leading a deeper, more intimate connection. However, while this may or may not be coincidental to the previously aforementioned, procured items, I have discovered that all of the equipment in this room is oozing a black, viscous sludge..." 

 

Cecil's clock hovers around 7:25 when he steps out of the bathroom, and back into the bathroom, his stomach twisted in nervous knots. He sighs, looking into the mirror, and grateful that it didn't look back this time. Again, he runs his fingers through his thick, blond hair, looking for the perfect balance between professional radio personality and dashing, roguish playboy. It's harder than it sounds. 

The bi-tonal humming and muted crunch of his refrigerator gears signal that it's 7:45, and Cecil steps out of the bathroom, six feet two inches of roguish, professional personality. 

At least, he hopes. 

The clock still says 7:25 as he leaves the house, but it's hovering slightly higher now. He makes a mental note to donate it to the library tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this, sorry for any emotional distress and/or bleeding this may have caused. Not sure if I'm going to even continue this, dear readers, because this seems like a good place to mysteriously wander into sand wastes and never post any of my writing on the Internet agaaaaaain 
> 
> But, seriously, thanks for reading.


End file.
